


Red Frost / Vörös Fagy

by JessKo



Category: Frankenstein (Movies - Hammer)
Genre: Cute Lab Assistant is Cute, Deaf Character, Huddling For Warmth, M/M, Pining, Sharing Body Heat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-03-20 02:00:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18982918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JessKo/pseuds/JessKo
Summary: On the run from the police, Victor Frankenstein and his assistant Hans find themselves stranded in the mountains on a cold and stormy night.Help comes to them in an unexpected form, but it is still a struggle to not only survive to see the next morning, but to communicate with their host.Set within the film The Evil of Frankenstein, some liberties are taken with what happens on their night spent in the cave.





	Red Frost / Vörös Fagy

**Author's Note:**

> Posted for Peter Cushing's birthday, May 26! 
> 
> This is rather outside of the box for me, I hope you like it!  
> Also, if you have not watched The Evil of Frankenstein, or any of the Hammer Horror films, do yourself a favor and indulge, they are fantastic!

When I agreed to assist Baron Victor Frankenstein, I had imagined long hours in a laboratory, working under secretive conditions to unravel the secrets to life itself. However, the past few days have turned this expectation on its head. Our laboratory raided mid experiment, the pastor effectively threw us out of the parish, threatening to call the constable should we continue our work.

I see no issue in reanimating a human heart, however the church had deemed our labor to be most unholy. So, with only our carriage and whatever we could carry on our persons, Victor directed our journey to his previous home, claiming to have many valuable possessions and a fully functional laboratory on the premise.  There was one stipulation, though, that being he had been banished from the town for similar reasons to our last sanctuary. Sneaking through town during a carnival was easy enough, but upon our arrival to the Frankenstein manor, it became apparent that the home had been gutted through, the facility ransacked. All that remained was some liquor stashed away and a sparse array of serving ware.

“Hans Fekete, I have here for you a king’s feast.” Victor had joked, setting out a bottle. “The finest wine,” placing down another corked bottle. “A whole roast hog,” another glass set on the table. “Mixed seasonal greens,” and yet another. “And even a chocolate cake.”

Laughing, I peered into the cabinet at the back of the once grand dining hall. “Even a platter of pastries, what luxury.” There were at least thirty of the same green bottles tucked away. “You spoil me Baron Frankenstein, truly.”

Not knowing what else to do, we ventured to the carnival in town, looking for leads on where the Baron’s possessions might have been spirited away to, and for a meal proper. It was not long before we realized that the local Burgomaster had taken Victor’s ring, and most likely much more. It was a lucky chance that we were able to escape the following confrontation, and that night I followed Victor to the Burgomaster’s residence to confront him on a more even field as he had been accompanies by the police chief at the carnival. We had not even been able to eat as our meal had been interrupted by this discovery before food could even arrive.

The Police Chief was on to our plan, and so we were chased away again, and this time fled to the mountains just North of the town. Here, we encountered an oddly familiar face, a woman with brilliant, feathery red hair. Here in the sheer rock side of the mountains, she was climbing effortlessly and seemed to beckon us forwards. In an exhausted and freezing state, our suits hardly suited to being out in the cold and stormy mountain night, we followed.

Now we find ourselves in her humble refuge, a cave carved of stone with hay on the floor to serve as protection from the cold. She does not speak, simply disappearing deeper into the cave. My teeth chatter lightly, my hair damp from the start of the storm we had been caught in, as if only to accentuate the sharpness of the chill in the air. I notice Victor spare me a sympathetic glance of his bright blue eyes, the only splash of pure color in this dreary place.

“At least we are out of the rain, and the worst of the wind.” I offer, a draft chilling my face. I hope this breeze may help dry my hair before it freezes, at least. I ought to cut it shorter, the deep auburn waves near impossible to fully tame with any product. But something always stops me, the lingering touch of the Baron when a freed bit falls in front of my eyes when I am concentrating, hard at work on a specimen. My hands occupied, he will delicately tuck it within the rest of my dark locks. Perhaps it is also simply a matter of not having time to visit a barber.

A hand at my shoulder brings my attention back to the harsh reality of the present.

“Yes, here we are protected from most of the elements. We owe many thanks to our host” He pauses, a slight frown painting his thin lips, his brows furrowing. “Hans, your jacket is torn.” Victor says idly, his fingers running along a tear in the seam of my black coat. Sighing, I eye the damage, running from the front to the back, only the underside intact. My thin white shirt peeks out from between a few loose threads. “Such a shame.”

A shame indeed. When I met the Baron, I had nothing but a worn suit, holes in the sole of my shoes, and my knowledge, a stranger in a country that was not my own. My scholarship allowed me to study, but nothing more, so when I was offered a home in exchange for assisting the Baron, I was quick to accept. This coat had been one of the very first things Victor had gifted me while under his care and tutelage. He had said something about needing to look decent if I was to reside in his home, but this was of a finer quality than the duty necessitated, more on par with his dinner jackets saved for guests than even the Baron’s own everyday ware. The gesture had not gone unnoticed.

“It can be repaired, what matters now is that we are safe.” I have no intention of replacing it.

Victor nods, and then shuffling footsteps draw our attention to the far end of the cave. The woman has returned with a loaf of bread clutched to her chest, her own long coat tied tightly shut. She murmurs something and gestures for us to take the food. Victor acts first, stepping forward to accept the offering, tearing a large piece off before returning it.

“We all will eat equally, thank you for sharing.” Dividing his own piece in half, I am given some of it, a hearty loaf but still hardly a meal when cut in thirds.

“I don’t need this much,” I begin to protest only to be met with a sharp gaze that silences me into taking a small bite. The meal is had quietly, the woman perched timidly on a stone outcropping with a thicker layer of hay, her bed I presume.

There is much I want to ask the woman, but it is not long before Victor and myself reach the same conclusion. She cannot speak and does not jump as we do at a loud clap of thunder that rattles the cave’s interior.

“I believe that she is deaf.” I conclude, swallowing down the last dry bite of bread. It had not nearly been enough to begin to fill my stomach, but the sharp pang of hunger is significantly dulled to a quiet rumble not unlike the storm outside.

“Regardless, this is no place for a woman, a human even, to live.” Victor adds, not quite finished with his own dinner. “Can you understand me at all?” He adds, stepping closer to the woman and gesturing with his hands vividly.

She shrinks back with another murmur.

“Can you speak?” He says, louder. “Do you have a name?”

No response.

“Hans I believe you are correct.” He concludes, leaning against a cold stone wall. “If she will follow, we will take her with us to the house. Give her room and food, teach her to communicate even.”

Nodding, I stand beside him. “I think we should give her a name.”

“I was never good at naming things, not even pets. Had a dog once, it was my past assistant who named the creature.” Victor’s face sours further at this memory for a brief second. I do not know much of his past assistant, but from his stories of the man he created, and its eventual death, I can assume that it was a relationship that ended in ruin.

Thinking quickly, I come up with something. “Piros.” I say simply. “It is Hungarian for red.”

“Fitting, but how can we tell her this.”

“We could create a symbol for it, just for her.”

“Good, good.” I can tell that his mental gears are turning. Squatting down, Victor arranges some stones and hay on the floor, creating an oval with three long strands shooting off it like the wisps of a flame. “Like this perhaps.”

“Perhaps, but I was thinking more something that we can form with our hands.” Looking down at my own tan digits, I touch my ring finger with my thumb and raise the other fingers. I hold this up, making a small side to side sweeping motion. “Piros.”

The next hour is spent attempting to communicate to her that this symbol is to represent her. Countless repetitions of pointing and signing. It is with a stroke of genius that we finally are able to transmit our message.

“We should have our own symbols as well.” Victor begins. “I will be a closed fist shaken twice towards the heart.” He points to himself then and gestures.

Her face becoming an expression of understanding, the woman repeats the gesture then points to Victor.

“Yes, that’s right.” He says with a soft smile. “And yours?” He asks me.

I must have taken too long to decide because then Piros tugs my sleeve. She holds up a flat hand and then brings it down to be level with her nose with her palm facing the ground. Then, she points to me.

“I guess that’s me.” I say, repeating the motion then pointing to myself. She nods with the first ghost of a smile, illuminating her eyes and making her hair somehow burn brighter. Victor lets out a hearty chuckle, and my own laughter is soon to follow. Victor stands and crosses the room. Then, he signs for Piros and she joins him on the other side of the cave quickly. Next, she signs for me, and I follow.

This may seem rather elementary, but I wonder if this is the first meaningful interaction Piros has had with another human being. The rest of the night is spent creating a simple language, signs for come and go, food and stone. Soon, though, we succumb to the long day we had, a yawn escaping my lips as a stretch my back.

“We had better try and get some rest, going to be a long few days.” I comment. Reading my body language, Piros signs a goodbye before climbing back on her platform, opening her coat to lay it atop herself.

“There is no way she is warm up there.” I comment, sitting in the corner of the cave on a thin pile of hay, my arms tucked inside my coat.

“We are even less likely to be warm on the floor here.” Victor chides, taking off his coat to follow her example. He lays down a few feet in front of me. My teeth chatter again to punctuate the point, nothing left to stimulate my mind and distract me from these dire circumstanced. Despite the hay, the damp chill of the floor quickly seeps into my bones.  

I close my eyes, but sleep is far from attainable at any pace here. There is no comfort, and even as I settle in, the whipping howl of the wind and storm threatens me on some primal level, urging me to remain alert as if I am but centimeters from a deadly plunge. After what feels like an eternity, but I am certain is only a few minutes, pass, I open my eyes again. In the dim light of the cave afforded by a full moon outside I survey my surroundings. Victor seems closer, but perhaps it is a trick of the shadows.

What is not a trick of the shadows is that the man, laying on his side, is shaking, curled into himself.

“Are you alright?” I whisper, not quite sure why.

He does not respond at first, but stirs, turning his head towards me. His hair, usually impeccably combed back, sticks out wildly. “If by alright you mean cold and uncomfortable, yes quite.” Somehow, he manages a sly grin. His lips are somehow even more pale than I remember.

Victor is strong, yes, but also a very thin man, tall and wiry for as long as I’ve known him, gauntness accentuated by the sharp curve of his cheeks. Any cold I am experiencing must be multiplied for him. A stirring from the platform causes us to break eye contact, turning to the sound.

The woman peers down at us, her eyes curious and concerned. She cocks her head and signs for cold. We both signify yes, and she nods understandingly. Scooting against the wall, she pats the space next to her.

Then, she signs for us to come. We both hesitate. “It might help.” I offer, finally rising to my feet, stomping out pins and needles from my toes.

Helping Victor up brings him close to me, warm breath drifting onto my face. “Thank you.” He says softly, shakingly. He seats himself on the edge of the platform.

“No, you go in the middle.” I protest, continuing before he can interject. “You need as much warmth as we can give you.”

“Very well.” He says, settling down in the middle of the platform, the hay warm from where she had been laying. Piros slides down against the wall, draping her arms over herself and looking shockingly like a corpse as how still she becomes.

Pushing this morbid thought away, I lay beside Victor, my shoulder against his. It is not long before his breathing evens, and then he turns onto his side, facing me. His face slots into the crook of my neck, his breaths warm and smooth. I lean into the touch, our bodies pressed against one another.

I know now that we will survive the night and slip into a contented sleep.


End file.
